


Into the Darkened Wood

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur - Freeform, Broceliande Forest, Faerie Queen - Freeform, Faeries - Freeform, Gen, Magic, Merlin - Freeform, Merlin AU, Merlin and Arthur friendship, Penumbra - Freeform, haunted forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To find Merlin, Arthur must brave the haunted woods. But something waits for him in the dark heart of the forest, and to escape its grasp, he must face the darkest secret from his past</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Darkened Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Merlin and its characters do not belong to me. No money is being made from this.

The black stone was rough under Morgause’s fingers as she traced the balcony railing overlooking Tintagel’s great hall. Two strains of laughter echoed from below, one feminine and musical, the other rough and male. Morgana and her betrothed- Accolon, the second son of Rheged. _‘There are better princes Morgana could have promised herself to_ ,’ she mused, a crooked smile gracing her battered face, _‘But few could have made her so happy.’_

He stood tall, enough for Morgana to nestle comfortably under his chin, his green and black leathers revealing a trim, well-muscled figure. It was rumored that there was no better fighter in all of Rheged, and perhaps the best in the Five Kingdoms, though he had never tested his mettle against Arthur Pendragon. ‘Someday, perhaps. Or it may be the necessity never comes. It will be a duel for the ages if it does, though.’ Morgause stifled a cough and moved away from the balcony, leaving the young lovers to their sweet nothings.

Like as not, she would not live to see such a battle. These days, her breath grew shorter and her hands trembled with a weakness that came and went. She felt her ending settling into her bones. It was not unexpected, but it was infuriating. There was so much left to do yet, and so much that would go unfinished.

“My lady?”

Morgause looked up to find her maidservant waiting at the end of the hall- Sefa, the daughter of the leader of their little sorcerer-warrior army. Though how such a mouse could be sired by such a lion as Ruadan was beyond Morgause’s knowing. “Are my whisperers away, then?”

Sefa shifted uneasily, her eyes rising for the barest moment before dropping to the floor again. “Yes, My Lady. Just an hour past. And the ravens with them. To Amata, Nemeth, Rheged, and a dozen to Camelot.”

“And the books I asked for? You have found them?”

“Yes, My Lady. M-my father brought them this morning. He said he would have them sent to your chambers.”

“Very good,” Morgause straightened as much as her aching back would allow and pulled in a deep breath. “Lend me your arm, then. Come now, I’m not going to tear it off. I am neither as young or as healthy as I once was.” Sefa shook only a little when she took the priestess’s arm. “There is only one thing I must find before we leave for our journey. I know it exists, but I must have the spells to find it. If I do not make it back, then you must ensure that Morgana knows what needs to be done. Or if you fear her too much,” Morgause read the girl’s startled look correctly, “Then tell your father, and he will inform her.”

“What is it for, My Lady, this thing you’re looking for?”

“A key to destroying our enemy- Merlin, and with him the Pendragons. It is hidden in a place he could not hope to find it, for only a High Priestess may reach it.” Sefa’s eyes flicked to meet Morgause’s for a moment. “Do not feel sorry for Uther and his kin, child. They are the reason we live in the shadows, why our kind are scorned and hated and burned. And do not feel pity for Merlin, either. He chose his fate, to stand with Arthur against his own. His end will be no less than he deserves.”

The girl shrank in on herself and nodded. “Yes, my lady. I just- I. . . “ The poor thing hardly had a tongue in her mouth when she addressed anyone higher than the chambermaids, let alone the two High Priestesses she served. “I wish we had peace.”

“There will be peace. When our enemies are defeated.” Morgause brushed the door to her chambers open with a whisper of power, lowering herself into a cushioned chair once inside. “Now go find some shadow to hide yourself in, or some bit of gossip to fill your mind. I need time to study.” When the girl had left, Morgause looked at the closed door, a book half-open in her hands. Peace. Someday, they would have peace, but not until Uther and his son lay dead. And Merlin? He would learn to fear a woman’s fury.

 

* * *

  

Arthur let out a long breath as he confronted the towering forest before him. The twisted branches reached toward him, ready to pluck him from the saddle if he misjudged them, while a crumbling stone arch yawned over the path, a gaping mouth into a forest that had a reputation for being more alive than it had a right to be. While sunlight speckled the undergrowth here and there in the reaches of the Darkling Wood, darkness thrived along the path beyond the arch. Spirits were rumored to haunt the whole of the forest- and worse- and no man went there willingly unless he was an outlaw.

Not even outlaws dared to enter the dark heart of the forest, the Broceliande Wood. Even Uther hadn’t tried to exorcise the forest of its demons after his first attempt to purify it with fire. After the knights launched their first few rounds of fire arrows into the trees, whatever magic infested the land there spat the flames back at its attackers, fanning it into an inferno that devoured the men but scarcely touched the trees. Fifty good knights died in an instant while the forest remained untouched, growing darker and more twisted than before. After that, the knights of Camelot kept far from Broceliande, leaving the wood to its own black purposes.

He never thought he would come here, but Merlin's return message had bid him do just that: _'Come to the Broceliande Wood in three days' time. Your horse will know the way._ ' For a full day, Arthur debated whether to go, trying to decide if the message was genuine, or if it was some ploy of Morgana's. But the more he thought about it, the more right it felt, to follow a horse into a haunted forest to find a sorcerer he should have sentenced to death over two months ago.

It was insane to go alone.

It was what he had to do.

Gaius had told him he needed to have faith in Merlin, and mad as the plan was he could think of no better way to prove it than this. "Well, Canrith," he spoke aloud to his horse. The white courser's ears flicked back, listening. "We have to go forward now, or go back forever. God help me if a servant makes a coward of me." Arthur took another long, calming breath. "I am Prince Arthur of Camelot," he murmured, "I have faced a dragon before. I will not be cowed by a forest."

He urged Canrith forward, giving the horse enough rein to choose its own way, but not enough to bolt if Broceliande sent some guardian after them to protect its borders. Altair followed, the brown gelding needing no reins or rider to guide it. The horse seemed to know they were looking for its rider- for Merlin.

There was little to recommend Broceliande for its beauty. The gray trees grew tall and straight, their dark branches weaving together thirty feet and more above his head, blotting out the sun and killing whatever underbrush might have grown rampant in a thinner forest. A carpet of pine needles muffled the sound of the horses' hooves, making them seem far away, while echoes of birdcalls bounced wildly about. Here and there, where the taller trees gave way, stands of smaller blackthorn and rowan trees huddled together like gossiping farm wives, while pink foxglove flowers and bluebells dotted the gloom with flecks of color. Other than the birds and the occasional rumor of a mouse or fox, nothing seemed to live there but the trees.

“This is. . . not as bad as I was led to believe,” Arthur said aloud. Canrith’s ears flicked toward him. “I know,” he muttered and patted the courser’s neck, “A forest is a forest to you. But I would rather be at home. In bed. Even if George is completely insufferable before noon. Or any other time of day, for that matter.”  He glanced up and chuckled. The sound of it was quickly muffled by the heavy air. _‘Why does it feel like my life is ruled by servants?’_

 A narrow stream appeared ahead, a gash in the land clotted with reeds and thorns. North and south, it stretched as far as he could see in either direction with no bridge or natural crossing. They would have to jump the distance. He urged Canrith to a gallop and both horses cleared the stream with room to spare. Here, the land grew soggy and thick with rotting plants and mud. Every step loosened a clump of mouldering leaves, sending the rank scent of decay into the air. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Are you sure about this?” he asked Canrith. The horse just snorted and carried on.

Behind them, Altair stopped suddenly, head up and ears twitching all around as it tried to find. . . something. Arthur could not tell what. To his eyes, the forest was empty of life, save for the flickering light of fairy fire rising from the disturbed earth. The gelding nickered, the sound loud and lonely as it echoed through the trees. “Altair-” he began, stopping suddenly when a rhythmic clacking answered in the distance, coming closer for a dozen heartbeats before it cut off with a guttural croak.

The weight of half a hundred gazes fell on him. He felt them prick the edge of his consciousness, lift the hairs on the back of his neck. “Hello?” he called to the silent trees. Arthur looked around, thought he saw pale eyes staring back through the gloom. They were gone after he rubbed his eyes, but the weight of them remained.

He fumbled at a pack, finally dragging Altair’s reins out and buckling them in place before nudging Canrith onward. The wet ground pulled at the horses’ hooves, making a slow sucking noise with every step until they reached a raised clearing. An ancient whitethorn tree stood alone, a proud old queen amidst a court of aging flatterers. Arthur caught a glimpse of sky, the pallid blue of a midwinter's afternoon, despite the early summer skies he had left behind that morning. Far from giving comfort, the clearing's light was unnatural, wrong.

Arthur heard the sliding screech of metal drawn from a sheath, saw a two-legged shape no higher than the horses’ knees flying out of the shadows at them. A dark red cap slouched over its bulbous face, and a notched blade was clutched in its hand. Trained for battle as he was, Canrith kicked out at the creature, striking it a glancing blow and sending it scurrying away with a pained squeal. Another creature took its place, and another, while flashes of fairy fire burst into being as the horses tore up the decaying soil.

Altair bolted. The gelding was a riding horse, and not accustomed to battle as Canrith was. Altair fled the clearing, slamming into the courser‘s side, sending the already off-balance horse staggering to its knees. Arthur grabbed at the saddle, the reins- anything to keep himself upright. He caught nothing but air before tumbling to the ground, where he lay stunned for half a second before rolling to his feet. “Canrith!” he shouted, but the courser had followed Altair out of the clearing ahead of a half dozen of the red-capped creatures.

Without the horses to threaten, they turned on Arthur, their feral smiles showing jagged teeth. Madness reflected in their eyes. With a single, quick motion, Arthur had his sword out and slashing across the leader’s face.

 _“Iarann fuar!_ ” it screeched, falling back as a smoking gash opened up on its cheek. Its companions hissed at him, but regarded the prince with more caution than before. He heard more blades unsheathing behind him, but while the two creatures were nearly in arm’s reach, Arthur did not dare look back.

 _“Téigh ar shiúl, caipíní dearga!”_ A cool, feminine voice rang through the clearing. The creatures hissed and moved toward him again, and the voice called out, louder this time. _“Orduithe do banríon agat!”_

 Fast as blinking, they disappeared. Silence fell over the clearing, save for the rush of air and a sound like falling rain. “Thank you?” Arthur said as he looked around for the source of the voice.

 _"So the mortal does have manners. Or at least the semblance of them. I was beginning to wonder. Well met, Arthur Pendragon."_ A woman's voice, deep and hissing, whispered behind him, then in in front of him, breezing around him and never halting, forcing the prince to spin a slow circle to follow. _"You are fast with a blade. Fortunate for you. If the Red Caps had tasted of your blood, even I would not have been able to stop them."_

 "Then my gratitude knows no bounds, My Lady. Did I do wrong, to enter this clearing?" Arthur tightened his grip on the sword hilt, kept the blade pointed toward the ground.

_"The Red Caps have a fierce desire for mortal blood, and no travelers have come to the wood for many winters. They grow impatient. Hungry. But your blood is not for them, Arthur Pendragon, and your purpose here is not as the sport of lesser creatures."_

Every trembling leaf and quivering branch drew his eye, as though the voice would materialize into someone he could face. Someone he could fight. The presence stayed hidden, though,  "Then what is my purpose here? I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, My Lady. I know neither who you are, nor why I'm here." A chill thought ran through him, "You. . . are not the Morrigan. Are you?"

Her laughter rang through the clearing, setting the bluebells to trembling. A hundred tiny near-chimes almost sounded then, like a dream that nearly turns to a nightmare before fading away. Another chill crawled down Arthur's spine. _"I am not such a one as that. She rules beyond the bitter reaches of the night and in the hearts of men who hate and rejoice in battle, strife, and panic. Mine is the domain of the Hollow Hills, of air and night and winter."_ The voice filled with the casual arrogance of long-assumed power.

"I- I'm afraid I don't know what that means," he replied, for once admitting his own ignorance. "I know little of magic, and less of gods and other spirits. My education. . . did not lean that way."

 _"You have much to learn, Arthur Pendragon. And more still to unlearn. But first, you must atone."_ A cloud of light and dust whirled before him. In it, he caught a glimpse of eyes, dark as night and full of sorrow. And hatred.

"What must I atone for?" Arthur said. His pulse beat loudly in his ears.

The voice hissed, setting the leaves and bluebells to trembling again. _"Are mortal memories truly so fleeting? Do you live a season, then let it fade away like the snows of yesteryear? How like your father, you are, when you remember so clearly the hurts given you and yet so easily forget the wounds you have dealt. Wounds that can never be bandaged, can never heal. They would linger in the land, poison it, turn it black with hate. And you, who caused it, who watched it happen, would forget it?"_ The air grew cold. _"Perhaps I should give you to the Red Caps, after all. That, at least, would be a fair fight against creatures able to strike back at you. Unlike the children your soldiers drowned."_ She closed in around his ears, the sound of her voice hammering relentlessly against his head until he wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut her out. But the freezing air held him motionless as the memories he had spent years shutting away tumbled free again. _"Now you see? Now do you remember?"_

Arthur felt icy fingers brush against his forehead. He cried out with the pain of it, falling to his knees as the forest spun around him, tilted, and faded. He heard the woman's voice in the distance, a singsong chant echoing through his mind before it, too, faded away into silence.

_Déan dearmad nach bhfuil, na héagóracha atá déanta agat._  
 _A choinneáil ar an creideamh, ní mór duit a impigh a logh._  
 _Chun dul ar aghaidh, ní mór duit dul ar ais._

 

* * *

 

_He had been knighted on his eighteenth birthday. On that, the happiest day of his life, he felt that finally he had earned his father's affections and that the king might acknowledge that Arthur truly had grown into the sort of man Uther wanted. The horse, the sword, the armor- the title- none of it had compared to the smile and warm words from his father. Even Morgana's barbed jibes failed to find their mark. For once he had felt like the prince everyone told him he was, not like a forgotten little dog yapping at Uther's feet, begging for attention. For one day, at least, life was good._

_He rode the wave of elation for a week, his spirits still so high that when the king ordered him to clear a Druid encampment out of the Darkling Wood, Arthur had gone without question. It was his first command. It should have been so simple- just chase a bunch of people out of the woods. A simple task. It all went so wrong so quickly._

_They were there now. Again. He and the strange spirit, among the trees and watching as the red-cloaked knights charged through the woods, their motions slowed as though time had stretched itself to imbed each passing moment deeper into Arthur's memory. He had not stood here on that day, back in the trees. He had not seen the Druids as they went about their lives in the forest, seeing to the day to day tasks of gathering wood for the cookfires and food for the evening meal while their children played among the trees. Had he even noticed how brightly the sun had shone overhead?_

_Likely not. Such things as dappled sunlight on the forest floor and singing blackbirds had been far below the notice of cocksure prince, drunk on his own status and wanting so desperately to win his father's approval. At eighteen, he never would have noticed the Druids look up at the sound of the charging horses, would not have seen their curious glances turn to horror at the sight of a score of knights overrunning them, cutting down the men where they stood. 'Let the women and children go,' he had ordered before sounding the charge. In those days he had not thought women could be a threat, and children. . . Children were sacrosanct. Innocent. Surely even the children of a threatening group could be taken in by good people and raised correctly? As wild and barbaric as the Druids were- as Arthur had thought they were- even they protected their children from all harm._

_The Knights of Camelot, then, would surely be the last men in the world to harm a child. But in the sudden quiet moments after the initial attack, when he heard splashing at the well, saw one of his brothers push a little boy into the water, heard the children screaming. . . He knew he had been terribly wrong._

_Arthur had frozen, shocked into stillness at the sight. His mind refused to work, his throat too tight to form the words that would stop the slaughter. A cry of despair from behind jarred him into action._

_He spun on his heel, driven by instinct and bringing his sword to bear against an attack. He found a woman flying at him, a rust-etched knife in her hand, eyes wild with rage and grief. She did not seem to notice the sword until she had impaled herself on it, burying it to the hilt in her own thin chest. She died with an accusation in her eyes, their sightless depths boring into him with a gaze that would haunt him for years. Arthur was quick to pull the blade free, swallowing back bile as he realized what he had done, what he had allowed._

_The children had stopped screaming._

Now, at the fairy woman's side, their sudden, awful silence bored into his brain and drove him to his knees, and he knew without looking that their ghosts pressed close. Hating him. Accusing him. As silent and unforgiving as the trees.

"Please. " he whispered, "Please. Forgive me. . . "

A cold wind passed between him and the spirits, walling him away from their threat. _"They won't,"_ the fairy woman whispered, _"They can't."_

 "Then why bring me here?" Arthur called, forcing himself to look up and face the ghosts, "I know that what happened that day is unforgivable. It was my fault. I was so naive." He reached a hand toward the closest spirit. "I wanted, so badly, to prove to my father that I was a capable commander, that I was worthy of his kingdom. I would have done almost anything to earn his approval. . . " Tears stung his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he looked at the ghostly children one by one by one. "But when I heard the screams, I froze. I didn't know what to do, how to stop what was happening. I am sorry."

The spirits surrounding him were unmoved. Death was in their eyes, and Arthur knew that without the fairy woman's protective wall of air, they would have killed him. "I can't change what happened!" he called to the sky. "God knows I wish I could. But I can't go back and change the past. So tell me. Why am I here?"

 _"So you would not forget."_ He felt cold hands press against his forehead. His vision swam for a moment and when it cleared they were back in Broceliande, in the clearing with the whitethorn tree. _"And so you would learn what you caused that day."_

The icy hands dug into his temples like claws. A sickness, sharp and profound, washed through Arthur. He nearly retched. _"They came here after that day, the survivors did. To Broceliande. To mourn their dead and lick their wounds in a forest that had been a refuge to them since the days of their fathers' fathers. Here, in my realm they nursed their hatred and many of them died of it, their peaceful blood turned black with infection. And so they infected the forest, turning its black heart even darker. Their hatred lives here still. Even one such as I can feel it, who watched the raising of the Hollow Hills in the earliest mists of time, who feels nothing save the passing of centuries. Now you can feel it, too, how it sickens the land and twists the woods."_

"Yes. I can feel it. What is it you want  of me? I can't bring those children back from the grave no matter how much I want to." Arthur pressed a hand to his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the throbbing in his head. "Nor do I know how to heal your forest."

_"If you could, if there were a way. . . Would you, Arthur Pendragon? What would you give to undo what you have done?"_

"If I could wipe that day clean and bring those children back to life?  I would give anything. I am not my father, My Lady. I can admit when I was wrong, and on that day I was so, so terribly wrong. They were my people, too, the Druids were. They harmed no one, had committed no crimes, save to have magic. While my father believes that made them evil, I know now that he was wrong. I am the Prince of Camelot. It is my duty to defend all my people." On his knees, Arthur spread his arms wide, his sword dropping to the ground from his nerveless fingers. "What would you have of me?"

A cold hand raked through his hair and yanked his head back. A colder blade pressed against his bared throat. His breath escaped as a faint whimper before he could stop it. " _Only the blood of the one responsible can wipe the slate clean again_ ," the spirit whispered, her breath soft against his ear. She pressed against his back, suddenly a very real presence. One that could end him in the blink of an eye if he answered wrong. Or even if he answered correctly. He knew nothing of spirits or of fairies, or anything of the world of magic. _"Would you give your life's blood to heal your realm, Prince of Men?"_

Arthur suppressed the fear-filled shudder. Right or wrong, he did not know what the correct path was. The only thing he could do was to tell the truth. "Yes," he gasped, half-choking on a sob, "Yes. If it meant Camelot's wounds would heal. I would die for my people a hundred times if I could."

 _"I do not ask as much as that,_ " she whispered, making a motion he felt more than saw. The blade whiskered along his throat. He felt a sting, saw three perfect drops of crimson fly slowly through the air to land at the roots of the whitethorn tree. _"Three drops only, do I require. More would be wasteful. It is not my place to murder the Once and Future King, only to ensure that he remembers his duty."_ The cold hand released its grip on his hair, her fingers brushing softly along his jaw before they disappeared. A draft of wintry wind blew threw the clearing and wrapped itself around the whitethorn tree. _"Remember this day, Arthur Pendragon. And remember your duty. They have forgiven you now, but I will never forget. . . "_

 Where his blood had landed on the ground, there was no sign, but Arthur could feel, somehow, that the heavy air had lightened. The forest no longer pressed so ominously close. Someday, he knew, even sunlight would return. He bent forward, suddenly light-headed and pressed a hand to the ground to keep from falling while the clearing spun slow circles around him.

"Arthur?"

A hand pressed against his forehead as though checking for fever. This time, it was warm, almost comforting. It startled him all the same. He staggered backward, almost falling, but he caught himself at the last and managed to stand instead. He looked up. A pair of wide blue eyes met his gaze, as wide and startled as his own must have been.

Arthur forgot to breathe for a moment, then found his voice again. "Merlin."

 

* * *

 

 Arthur's sword lay on the ground and for once, Merlin was glad for it. Given the play of emotion burning through the prince's eyes he was not sure what would happen next, as they flashed through surprise, confusion, a hint of anger, and even a flash of relief. Merlin did not miss the tear tracks on his face, either, as Arthur turned to retrieve the fallen blade, brushing a hand across his face in the process.

"Are. . . Are you all right?"

Arthur nodded. He looked back at Merlin, noted the reins in his hand and the horses- Canrith and Altair both- standing behind him. "How long have you been here?"

"Not long. Just in time to- That is- I thought- You looked like you were about to pass out," Merlin cursed his tongue, wishing he could take that all back and start over. Beginnings were difficult; new beginnings were worse. Especially when he sounded like the fool he had always been taken for. But he could say this much- whatever had driven Arthur to tears, Merlin had neither seen it, nor been party to it. Arthur's secrets were his own still.

"Why here?" Arthur gestured at the trees around them as he sheathed the sword. It slid home into the scabbard with a loud clack.

"Why did I have you come to Broceliande?" Arthur nodded. Merlin fidgeted with the reins in his hands, wet his dry lips. "It'll sound insane to you, I'm sure." The reasoning made a certain mad sense in the warlock's mind, but he was versed in destiny and the ways of the forests and the magical creatures that lived there. Arthur's world was one of iron and stone and had little to do with the imaginings of prophets.

"I've put up with your ridiculous. . .  excuses until now," Arthur said slowly, "If  we are going to try to start over, Merlin, we should probably start with the truth. No matter how insane it sounds."

Merlin couldn’t bear the intensity of Arthur's gaze anymore, not with the weight of all his lies hanging between them. Altair snuffled his hair suddenly, as though sensing his distress. Merlin reached back and idly scratched the gelding's nose as he pondered where to begin. The trees seemed as good a place to start as any. "The Broceliande Wood is sacred to the Druids. It is. . . was a refuge for them. Until it got sick. It was also a place where their leaders would go atone for their sins and make peace with the faerie queen, as it were."

Arthur drew in a sharp breath, but his expression was even when Merlin looked back at him. "Go on," he said.

"This is the part that sounds insane," he laughed nervously, "I- I'm not. . . I'm not a prophet, Arthur, or a seer, and most of the time I have no idea what I'm supposed to do next, but sometimes there are things I know I have to do. I know them like I know my own name, and when I got your message, that night I was looking up at the stars and it was like they were telling me that you had to come here, to Broceliande. And for whatever reason, we wouldn't be able to continue on until you did." Merlin locked his unblinking gaze onto Arthur's, gripping the horses' reins so tightly it felt like they would slice his hand open. "So I sent a reply, and then slipped into Camelot one night, laid the spell on Canrith, and came back here to wait for you."

"What if I hadn't come?"

A faint, but real smile graced Merlin's face. "I have faith in you Arthur. Today, tomorrow, a year from now? You would have come here someday, and I would have waited. I'd wait a thousand years if I had to."

Arthur's brow furrowed as he digested Merlin's words. "You're right," he said at last, "It does sound insane. Crazier than anything you've ever come up with before. But. . . I believe you. Although," he held a hand up to forestall any exclamations from the warlock, "If you are going to come back, you must promise me something."

"Anything."

"From this moment on, Merlin," Arthur's gaze bored into him, "Only the truth between us. You've lied to me long enough. I won't stand for it anymore. "

Merlin's smile turned melancholy. "I've only ever wanted to tell you the truth, but it was too dangerous. If the wrong person heard the wrong thing. . . " He shivered, remembering the fires. "It was too great a risk."

"Gaius knew. So did Lancelot."

"Gaius always knew about me, Arthur. Before I even came to Camelot. Lancelot found out because I simply couldn't hide the spell we needed to kill the griffin. If you'd been awake at the time, you'd have figured it out then." He nervously scratched his chin, noting the days' worth of stubble there. His smile turned sheepish, "To be fair, though, I did once confess to being a sorcerer in front of you, your father, and the entire privy council. You didn't believe me."

Arthur rolled his eyes, "If only because you spent the first six months as my servant behaving like a complete idiot. All the time." A faint smile touched his lips, and he shook his head to chase it- and whatever memories Merlin had dredged up- away. The prince locked gazes with his servant, his blue-gray eyes as hard as stone. "Do I have your word, then, Merlin? From this moment on, no lies between us?"

"You have my word."  There were a thousand and one more things Merlin might have said in that moment, but he kept his sentiments to himself for once and let his response drift to that of the soldier's, trading gesture for words as he clasped Arthur's arm, and the prince returned his grip. He could not keep the joy from his eyes, though, or the smile from his face. Whatever had happened in the past months, none of it mattered now. Arthur was welcoming him home- with a condition, of course, but it was hardly one that he would call a burden. "Well," he swallowed hard against a niggling new worry, "Now what do we do? Magic is still against the law. . . "

"Yes," Arthur nodded, "It is. And I can't change it while my father lives. Even as regent, I don't have that authority."

"And I suppose everyone in Camelot knows about me by now?"

"No, actually, they don't. Only Elyan told anyone, and that was Guinevere. There are rumors, of course," Arthur smirked at that, and he could only imagine what the townspeople might have said, "But only a few touched on thoughts of magic."

"A whisper is too loud, and even a few are too many, Arthur. You may be the prince, but there are still many who wouldn't hesitate to kill a sorcerer wherever they found him. I don't want to cause trouble." He looked down at the reins in his hands, noting how he had almost twisted them into knots. It took a careful effort of will to loosen his grip on them and straighten the leather out. "I can take Altair and go. . . "

He didn’t notice the prince's approach until Arthur coxed the reins from his hands. "I swore to protect my people, Merlin. All of them. If I can't keep one lousy servant's head on his shoulders, then what good am I? Besides," Arthur ruffled Merlin's hair and clapped him on the shoulder, letting his hand rest there for a moment before ushering him forward, "I can hardly let a known criminal wander freely across the countryside."

"Oh. So it's the dungeon for me?" Merlin’s light tone didn’t feel quite so forced.

"So you can come and go as you please?" Arthur scoffed, "Gaius told me you have some sort of disappearing trick up your sleeve. I'm not so stupid as to let you out of my sight now." There was a note of mockery in Arthur's voice as he swung up into the saddle. Merlin welcomed it.

"So it's back to being a servant, then?"

"Surely it's better than living in a haunted forest. Was there really no other place for you to go?" Arthur looked at the thick canopy branches above them in askance.

Merlin shook his head, chuckling. "I haven't been in Broceliande this whole time, Arthur. I've been traveling through the outer lands as a healer. I've been Gaius's apprentice since I came to Camelot. It seemed a good time to put those skills to work. The villagers certainly appreciated it."

Arthur seemed ready to say something, then closed his mouth. The prince was in the habit of forgetting Merlin's apprenticeship until some wound required mending. Then he was grateful for it. "Using your. . . magic to heal, then, I assume?"

"When I needed to, and could do it in secret, yes. But healing's hard- even with magic. It doesn't always work. Why? Would you rather I let a child die, than use magic to try to heal them?"

The question was asked innocently enough- at least, Merlin intended it to be innocent. But Arthur flinched and his face paled. He was silent for a time. "How long have you been living here in Broceliande, then?" he asked at last.

Whatever prompted the change of subject, Merlin didn’t know, but he was willing to go wherever Arthur led. "Just in the past week. Do you know Lord Pynell?" Arthur grunted an affirmative. "Then you'll know that he loves hunting as much as he hates sorcery. I overheard some of his guardsmen talking about the hunting expedition they were on and, since I didn't know who in Camelot knew about my magic, I figured it would be best to deal with being ill in Broceliande than be torn apart by dogs."

"I can see why you'd want to avoid that," Arthur said. Pynell's reputation for brutality preceded him, and more than one sorcerer had met his end in the jaws of the man's hounds. "But what does being ill have to do with anything?"

"My magic," Merlin shrugged, "It comes from the land- among other things- and if the land's sick, it makes me sick. It's better today, though."

"Do you have any idea why?"

"No, but I'm glad for it, whatever the reason," he frowned at Arthur's back, "Am I missing something? You seem awfully keen on finding something out. You may as well just ask. I promised I'd tell you the truth, and I'm not about to go back on my word."

Arthur's shoulders sagged. He shook his head and turned to look back at Merlin. "I know that. It's just. . .  I'm going against everything my father has stood for for twenty-five years. I'm. . . " He glanced up at the trees and gave a rueful laugh, "I'm lost in the woods on this. I'm not even sure I'm going the right way."

"East. And a little south. We'll be back in the Darkling Wood just before sundown," Merlin grinned, though he knew Arthur wasn’t speaking of their physical direction. "All your people deserve protection, isn't that what you just told me? Even criminals are protected, in their way." The prince smirked at that. "You know right from wrong, Arthur. What does your heart tell you? Are you walking a just path or not?"

Though he could not see Arthur's face, Merlin had known him long enough to recognize the slant of his shoulders and the tilt of his head when the prince was thinking. And he knew the subtle straightening of his back when Arthur came to a conclusion. "Yes. I am."

"Then you're not so lost as you thought you were." The path widened ahead of them. Merlin nudged Altair to a trot until he had caught up with Arthur. "What made you change your mind?"

"I, uh, had some time to think about it. A lot of time, actually."

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" The jest tumbled out before Merlin could stop it, and Arthur was just as quick to swat him upside the head for it. "Sorry. Don't mind me."

"I won't," Arthur rolled his eyes, but continued despite the interruption. "After you left, I got the silent treatment from most everyone. Especially Gwaine." He winced, rolling a shoulder as though loosening up an aching arm. Merlin winced at the thought of Gwaine's reaction. The knight's friendship with him had always seemed to come before his loyalty to the prince. What practice field battles had had been fought between them?

"Anyway," Arthur went on, "With no border disputes or bandits or anything to worry about, and practically no one willing to talk to me for a week or more, I had some time on my hands. Gave me the space to ask Gaius the sorts of questions I should have been asking ages ago. And to think on something Guinevere said to me."

"You should listen to her more often. Gwen's a lot wiser than most people give her credit for," Merlin said as he glanced over at Arthur. The prince didn’t notice the sidelong glance, as lost in thought as he was. "What did she say?" Merlin quietly prompted.

"That I should ask myself if the qualities of knighthood- loyalty, friendship, equality. Courage. She wondered if they were more to me than just words to say. Eventually I realized that. . . " Arthur's words slowed, as though he had to drag each word out with a great effort, "She was right. I hadn't acted the way a knight should. I reacted out of my own wounded pride, and not with the sense of  justice that a true knight of Camelot would." He looked as sheepish as Merlin had ever seen him with the way his brow was furrowed and his fiddling with his horse's reins. He had the feeling that the prince would be shuffling his feet like a little boy, if only he were standing and not riding.

"Apology accepted," Merlin grinned.

Arthur blinked and looked up at the warlock, his eyes wide and startled. "I didn't apologize for anything."

"No, but it's the closest I'm going to get, and I'm willing to accept it," Merlin said. His smile widened. It wasn’t a renunciation of Uther's laws- that was simply too much to ask for, Merlin knew, but the roundabout- and straightforward response from before- was enough for the warlock to realize that Arthur had changed his mind about magic. And just maybe his foolish dreams might come true after all.

"If there's anything I've learned about royalty these past years,” Merlin said, “it's that they don't apologize for much. In those rare times when you admit that maybe you might have done something wrong, I've figured out it's as much of an apology as you're going to give. So. Apology accepted."  

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. "Sometimes, Merlin, on very rare occasions, you manage to be wise. Sometimes." He pursed his lips, lost in thought again as he gathered the reins back up. "Do one thing for me?" The warlock raised a quizzical brow in response. "Just- Always just be you. All right?" Before he could respond, Arthur spurred his horse to a quick canter as the trail lightened before them.

 _'Prince Arthur Pendgragon. The Once and Future King. The bravest man you'll ever meet can't face a few moments of sincerity.'_  "Always," Merlin promised, though he knew Arthur couldn’t hear it. Then he nudged Altair onward to catch the prince up and, in the falling light of the sun, to take the place that fate had given him- at Arthur's side.

 

* * *

 

They made camp just outside the boundaries of the Broceliande Wood, falling into the familiar habits that only years of companionship could instill in two people. Arthur chose the clearing, and Merlin set up the camp and built the fire, lighting it with a gesture that he had become used to, but startled Arthur, who waved off the warlock's sheepish apology with a faint scowl. After that, they had eaten a quiet meal made up of trail rations and fresh-picked berries while Merlin kept his peace, waiting for the questions he could see bubbling in Arthur's eyes to finally overflow.

The fire had nearly died by the time the prince spoke. "Where does it come from?"

"What?" Merlin asked, blinking owlishly as he tried to catch the drift of Arthur's question.

"Your magic. Where does it come from?" he did not need to add 'idiot' at the end. Merlin heard it anyway. "You said earlier it come from the land- among other things. What are the other things?"

"Oh. From within, mostly. From my own strength. I've worn myself down to nothing more than once trying to keep you alive." He grinned at the slight widening of Arthur's eyes, brushing the thought of those days away as though it had been no more trying than washing the prince's socks.

"I once pulled energy from a thunderstorm. Hardly slept for days after that. Gaius threatened to nail my feet to the floor one night." The physician had finally dosed Merlin with a powerful sleeping draught after putting up with his too-jittery ward four nights running after their return from the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin's smile faded at the thought of Nimuëh and her rituals. "There are darker means I've heard of- blood sacrifices the High Priestesses made- to gain even more power. The stain an act like that would leave on your soul, though," Merlin shook his head, his gaze unfocusing, "I can't imagine even trying it."

Arthur nodded, his eyes shadowed and unreadable in the failing firelight. "What. . . What does it feel like?"

"What, magic?" The prince nodded. Merlin turned his gaze inward, trying to capture the feeling and put it into words. "It's like. . .  wind and rain and sunshine and storms, and all the seasons wound into one breath, and everything vibrating and more alive than ever before. You feel. . . everything in all its alive-ness. All the world is a part of you, and you are part of it. And even that's not the half of it," he grinned and looked up at Arthur, saw the fire reflecting in his prince's intense gaze. "Imagine holding the whole of your life in one hand and trying to describe it all in one breath. A few words can hardly contain a lifetime's worth of stories."

"Someday, you'll have to give me the full telling of your stories."

Merlin nodded, his gaze falling to the fire as his bright mood blew away like so much smoke. "It's a long story. You'll probably hate me by the end of it. There is blood on my hands. . . " His fingers twitched, curling into loose fists as though the gesture could hide his history.

Arthur didn’t miss the movement. When he spoke at last, his voice was surprisingly gentle, "None of us are innocent, Merlin. If there is blood on your hands, there is even more on mine. What right do I have to judge you?"

"You will be king one day, Arthur, and it will be your duty to dispense the king's justice- determine guilt and innocence, just as your father did. Whatever is in your past has nothing to do with what I've done." Merlin quickly moved to build the fire back up. Its dying smoke reminding him too much of Dragonfire and the destruction he had unwittingly brought down upon Camelot.

"Merlin," Arthur rubbed his eyes and sighed, "Let's not dwell on this right now, all right? It's been a long day. We'll talk about it some other time." He waited until the warlock nodded his agreement before settling back against a tree to lose himself in his own thoughts. Merlin thought he had gone to sleep when he spoke up again, his voice oddly loud against the quiet of the forest. "Tell me something. My mother. . . The bargain my father made with Nimuëh. . . ?"

"Was there a way to avoid what happened?" Merlin could hardly follow the course of Arthur's thoughts, from one magical subject to another. Perhaps it stemmed from having a servant bound to the truth now, and the ability to finally get answers that no one had been able- or willing- to give him before. From the pleading look in Arthur's eyes, it was hard to tell what answer he wanted to hear, but Merlin had only the truth to offer.

"No. Not in my experience. Rain falls on kings and beggars alike. It doesn't care. It's just rain. The same is true of the Old Religion. It doesn’t care who lives and who dies, only that the balance is maintained. Only life can pay for life, Arthur. Your father wanted a son more than anything else, and he loved your mother more than his own life. When you make a bargain like the one he made with Nimuëh. . . What you take has to be in equal measure to what you give. A life for a life."

"And when it came time he blamed the one who gave him what he asked for. He blamed Nimuëh- and all her kind- for my mother's death." Arthur looked off into the darkness beyond the clearing, his eyes shining in the new firelight. "Morgause was right, then, when she summoned my mother's spirit. All she did was tell me the truth. And then you said she was lying. You condemned your own kind, Merlin. . . why?"

"Because, " The words were hard to find, "Because even though Morgause showed you the truth that day, she did it to tear Camelot apart. You were a hairsbreadth from killing your father when I came in, Arthur, and you would never have forgiven yourself if you had done it. You would not have been able to rule effectively, and Camelot would have fallen. To Morgause, to Rheged, Mercia, Amata. You are destined for greatness. I couldn't stand by and let that destiny die."

Arthur stared down at his tightly clasped hands. "You. . . You're a better man than I have a right to have at my side. You should hate me for everything the Pendragons have done to your kind. Why. . . ?"

"Why am I still here?" Arthur nodded again. A slow grin spread across Merlin's face. "Some men are born to plow fields. Others are destined to be great kings. And me? I was destined to serve you, Arthur, and I wouldn't change a thing about that." He held the prince's gaze until the baffled look in his eyes changed to acceptance.

"I guess this means I'm never going to be rid of you, then, doesn't it?" He pretended not to hear the tremor in Arthur's voice- the gratitude the prince was trying to cover with humor.

"No. You're stuck with me now. Although," Merlin said lightly, "Now that you have two servants, don't expect me to always be washing your socks. I do have an apprenticeship to finish out. Unless you don't really want a healer traveling with you-"

"Merlin," Arthur cut him off. "Shut up." He let out an exasperated chuckle and shook his head, "George, at least, knows how to be a proper servant. For the first time in ages, my clothes have been cleaned properly. And my meals are delivered on time."

"If you don't want me to serve you at all, just let me know. It'll be nice to have some free time on my hands-"

"Absolutely not. George may be the best servant in Camelot, but he's the most boring man I have ever met. He makes jokes about brass. I have no idea where they found him or why they decided to inflict him on me," Arthur grumbled.

"I have a few ideas," Merlin muttered under his breath, giving the prince an innocent look when he frowned at the warlock. A sudden ruffling of feathers and a weight on his knee saved Merlin from having to repeat himself and irritating Arthur further. The little owl he had charmed so many weeks earlier had found him again and was chirping excitedly about something disturbing moving in the forest.

He moved the owl to his wrist as he pushed up to his feet, letting his mind's eye open to search along the forest paths for the threat the owl was so keen to alert him about. Few predators moved by night, but if there were a pack of wolves, or if Morgana had found them again, Merlin wanted to know.

"Merlin, what-?"

The warlock cut Arthur off with the faintest of gestures- no doubt he would hear about it later- but for now? He kept searching, finally finding the disturbance that had upset the owl. With a laugh, he sat back down and coaxed the bird off his wrist and onto a low branch. "Something out in the forest scared him," Merlin answered Arthur's questioning look, "But I don't think we'll need to worry about it. Unless, of course, you're still worried that Gwaine is out to get you. Did you not tell anyone where you were going?"

"No. They would have insisted on coming with me. I wanted to. . . do this. . . alone," Arthur smirked and glanced up at the patch of star speckled sky and the full moon above. "I figured they would follow sometime. I didn't think it would take this long to find me."

"They're about a mile away, so you'll have time to prepare your last words."

"They are meant to protect me, not kill me," Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Tell that to Gwaine. Or Leon," Merlin added more wood to the fire. The knights had probably been riding all day and would likely appreciate the welcoming light. "Or Elyan, if he got an earful from Gwen about losing track of you. And don't tell me I'll have to protect you from her when we get home. Gwen's terrifying when she's angry, and I don't want to be in her way when she's-"

"Merlin. Shut up."

"Yes, sire." They settled in to wait for the others. It didn’t take long for them to arrive with the firelight to guide them, even through the dense forest. At the first sound of jingling armor, Merlin pulled his cloak tighter around himself and settled back into a shadow to wait. Not that he was worried about what they might say. No, he just wanted to surprise them a bit.

Leon was the first to arrive, the worry lines around his eyes softening in relief when he caught sight of the prince sitting by the fire with no harm done to him. "Arthur! We've been looking for you all day." The blond knight bit back whatever else he was going to say; no doubt he didn’t want the others to mock him for sounding like someone's mother.

"You picked a fine place to have a picnic, Princess," Gwaine said, "Right next to the Broceliande Wood? You'd have to be right barking mad to go there."

"Not even outlaws go there," Elyan agreed.

"Well, it was quiet, and I didn't have to put up with you lot talking my ears off for once," Arthur smirked, keeping his eyes firmly on the knights gathering around him, none of whom had spotted Merlin yet. It was the usual group- Lancelot, Percival, Elyan, Leon, and Gwaine, along with an older knight Merlin had never seen before- a weathered man with sharp eyes, who blended in with the shadows as thoroughly as Merlin did.

"What'd you take two horses for, anyway? Were you afraid Canrith was going to spook and run away?" Percival asked.

"What, and make me walk all the way back to Camelot?" Merlin finally spoke up, "I don't mind walking that much, but it is rather a long way."

All eyes turned toward him, blinking in surprise and disbelief. A hush fell over the clearing before Gwaine broke the silence. "Merlin!" he shouted as he rushed the warlock, pulling him to his feet and wrapping him in a fierce hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him. "Where have you been, Mate? I thought we'd never see you again!"

"Oh, here and there," Merlin coughed when Gwaine finally released him. He shook his head to clear his senses and found himself amidst a cluster of grinning knights who were, perhaps, too excited to see him to notice that their exuberance was close to knocking him flat.

Until Arthur spoke up. "What, are you going to kill him with kindness now? After I just went through all the effort of finding him again?"

There was some sheepish laughter and a couple of laughing apologies in response, but they let him sit down again to stop his head spinning before Gwaine pressed a flagon of ale into his hands and began peppering him with questions. Most of them he answered willingly- and truthfully- though some answers were meant to stay between Arthur and him. Those, Merlin deftly evaded, aided by years of practice in lying about himself. Practice he was glad to say was- mostly- at an end. In lieu of the answers he would not divulge, he told them stories of his travels in the past months, of hunters evaded and ailments healed- even one about a knight of Camelot who could not see the sorcerer sitting right under his nose. Stories and jokes and laughter until he was yawning more than talking and they finally let him be.

And while they might have been miles from Camelot's walls, the physical place was not so important to him in that moment. There, in a forest clearing so much like the one where everything had gone so terribly wrong, he was back at Arthur's side and surrounded by friends who knew his secret and yet still welcomed him among them. There, by a campfire in the Darkling Wood, Merlin was finally home again.

 

* * *

 

 "So you found your shadow again." Arthur looked up to find Lucan settling onto the ground next to him. "I take it your 'falling out' was due to his magic?" The older knight smirked at Arthur's answering nod. "And I see that you've discovered magic isn't the evil thing your father always told you it was."

Arthur's gaze rested on his sleeping servant for a moment before catching Lucan's. "Is this the part where you tell me you've been a sorcerer all these years, and you've been hiding it from everyone?"

Lucan chuckled, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the others. "No, lad, I've problems enough without adding magic to the mix. I'm not a sorcerer, but I'm not opposed to them or their ways. Likewise with the Druids. They've sheltered me a time or three so I've long seen them as friends, not foes. It was that, that your father and I disagreed upon the most. There's a reason I left for the borderlands and didn't bother coming back 'til now." They sat in silence for a time, listening to the thrum of the forest around them and the breeze stirring the leaves in the trees. Lucan's sharp eyes studied Merlin intently. "That one sees far, Arthur, and carries an uncommon sort of wisdom with him. You'd do well to keep him by your side."

A wry smile tugged at Arthur's lips, "I'm starting to figure that out. He can be the most irritating idiot, though."

"Brothers are like that," Lucan said to the air.

Arthur tried to shrug the comment off, but it lingered anyway as he studied Merlin, noting the little things that had changed- besides the length of his unruly hair and the shadow of a beard tracing his jawline. He remembered the steady light in his servant's eyes, different from the mischief normally dancing there. This new light held the fixed calm of the ages and the surety of a new dawn. There was a stillness, too, in the way Merlin held himself, as though he listened for a music just beyond the range of hearing. True, the fidgety energy was still there, and the quick wit, but there was some ineffable quality within the sorcerer that had inscribed a new grace within him.

 _'Or maybe it was always there, and I'm the one who grew up,_ ' Arthur mused. "He said he once pulled power from a storm, Lucan. Can you imagine what that must feel like?" A chill ran down Arthur's spine at the thought of it.

"I'd sooner plop myself on the back of a feral stallion during the Wild Hunt than try to tame a storm. It'd be a safer ride. And a cleaner death," Lucan stared down at the glowing embers as though he hadn’t seen Arthur turn sharply to stare at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Power's a strange thing, lad. Your father didn't set out to be a tyrant, but that's what he became. And I'll not apologize for telling you an uncomfortable truth." The older knight looked up at Arthur, his eyes steady. "You need him to keep you on the straight and narrow, to keep you from walking your father's path. Even an old fool like me can see that. But he'll need you, too. King or priestess, power will eat a person alive if it's unchecked. It's tearing at your sister and destroying your father. Don't you let him fall, too, Arthur."

"Do you really think he could become like Morgana?" he fought to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "You've met him. Do you think he could become as bitter and hate-filled as she has?"

Lucan raised his hands in a placating gesture, "Peace, Arthur. I don't mean to say that Merlin's sure to become some twisted enemy of yours. Not at all. But Morgana loved you once, and your father had the same hopes as you when he was young. Neither meant to turn out as they did, but there they are, eaten alive by the power they craved."

"That wouldn't happen to Merlin."

"I believe you," Lucan said.

"Then why the warnings? Are you trying to make me jump at shadows?" Arthur hissed.

"No, Arthur, to make you aware of them, of what power can do to a man on a mission. Morgana wants to rule. She believes that the throne of Camelot is hers by right, and there's nothing you can say or do to make her believe otherwise. If Merlin believes it's his mission, or fate, or what have you, to protect you, he'll pour every last drop of himself into it and burn himself to ashes to keep you safe." Lucan poked at the last of the fire, shifting a log in the embers. It popped loudly, as though to emphasize his words. "Would you want him to do that for your sake? Would you let your little brother die for you, if you could stop it?"

The fire flared for a moment, limning Merlin's face in a dull red light. Arthur shuddered. "No."

"Then protect him, just as you would your knights. Protect him from himself, just as he'll protect you from yourself. And just maybe you'll be able to bring about that perfect kingdom you're dreaming of." Lucan clapped Arthur on the shoulder and offered him a wry grin. "Now enough maunderings. You're about ready to drop. Get yourself off to sleep, Arthur. I'll keep watch the rest of the night."

Arthur's retort died in a yawn.  "I bow to your good sense, then. And thank you for it, too."

"Just remember what I've taught you, Arthur. If you can keep a good head on your shoulders when you're king, that'll be thanks enough."

 

 


End file.
